


Bright Star

by dogpoet



Series: Punctuation [5]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Hathaway's brain, M/M, Poetry, red socks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogpoet/pseuds/dogpoet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since he was a child, he’d been told he was bright, a bright star in a lonely sky.</p><p>Spoilers for 5.04 The Gift of Promise</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Star

**Author's Note:**

> Fifth in the [Punctuation Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/8192)
> 
> No footnotes, but I’ve quoted Donne, Shakespeare, Keats, Yeats, Shelley (P.B.), Joyce, Aquinas, Augustine, Bradstreet, and Beck (as in: Beck).
>
>> > Beta by [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/simoneallen/profile)[](http://www.livejournal.com/users/simoneallen/)**simoneallen**  
> 

_Bright star, would I were as steadfast as thou art —  
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night_

        — John Keats

 

After Dr Hobson had departed, Hathaway sat down at a desk in Andrea de Ritter’s flat and began to read the letters that had been scattered near the body. Each letter had been carefully written by hand on thick paper. Either the writer — someone named Elmo — or the stationer had painted flowers in the margins. It was very Romantic, in all senses of the word.

 _your sweet lips against mine… the way you look when I…_ A bit dramatic. But nothing I don’t feel myself. Passion. Things I wish I could tell him, words and body. Why is it easier for some people than others? Texture of the paper under my fingers. Chosen on purpose. Something sensual about it. To remind her how his hands felt on her, maybe. He’s a suspect. Passion is love and hate. But if he didn’t kill her, how will it feel? The loss. Like someone pulling your insides out. I hear his step. Don’t look up. Learn to recognise him just by sound. By smell. Could I blindly touch a finger to his arm and know him?

The sound of Lewis’s footsteps grew louder on the wooden floorboards. Hathaway kept his eyes focussed on the letters.

“Have you read the letters yet? Cullen says Elmo had a crush on her,” Lewis said, coming near.

Himself. Warm in my bed this morning. His hands. Rub of his thumb. Like the paper. Shiver just thinking about it. I sent him home for fresh clothes. Always in a hurry because of that.

Hathaway allowed himself to look up. He handed the letters to Lewis. “It was reciprocated. And it was more than a crush.”

Hand the letters to him, as if they were my own. Read these words. Mine. Not mine. Always want to put my hands on his shirts when they’re freshly pressed. Feel him underneath. Smell. Mine.

“Are you blushing?”

He thinks I’m young. No. Not exactly. Young in some things. In this, maybe. Will it last? I change my mind about so many things. Only know I want him now. Haven’t known the love of twenty years. How long were they married? Don’t. You are not her. How does he see me? The way I see him different to how she saw him. How he feels to me, his arms like home. Did he feel the same to her? Different bodies, his and hers. Younger then, too. Would I have liked him before? Loss made him who he is.

Lewis studied the letters through the plastic sleeve that encased them. He was silent for a minute. “Infatuation, I’d call it. Purple prose.” He said each word purposefully and made a slight gesture with the page.

Hathaway lowered his eyes to the laptop keyboard in front of him and busied himself opening Andrea de Ritter’s email program.

Infatuation, he thinks. Elmo thought love. Which was it?

‘ ’ 

Dr Hobson’s examination rooms always looked and smelled the same: bright, fluorescent lights; polished floors clean of blood and all other traces a body might leave behind; the scent of disinfectant; and hints of putrefaction.

Hobson was the only splash of colour, her golden hair against the white walls and the silver fixtures and gurneys. She greeted Hathaway sunnily when he stepped inside. “Nothing shocking,” she announced. “It is what it looks like. I didn’t find anything more.”

Hathaway looked over at Andrea de Ritter’s body, which lay on a metal slab, partially covered. Hobson discreetly pulled the sheet up the rest of the way.

Say something to her. Act normal. Did he send me so that he wouldn’t have to face her? Always feel guilty when I see her. He told her there was someone. Wonder if she was upset. He said not. Old flame I saw her with. Still. Took something that was hers. But he’s mine. Is he mine? They still flirt. Habit? Try not to react when they do it. Wish he’d stop.

Hathaway opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Hobson tilted her head and gave him the once over.

“You look a bit peaky. Are you all right?”

Hathaway gazed at her, questioning.

“Did something happen? Between you and him,” Hobson clarified, busying herself by dropping scalpels into alcohol. “Things seem…different. Lately.”

Don’t look at the floor. She’ll know I’m avoiding answering.

But Hobson went on: “Have you met her? This woman he’s seeing.”

“No, I haven’t.” He backed slowly towards the door. “I’d best be going. If there’s nothing more.”

“Not as yet,” Hobson confirmed, still looking at him curiously.

Hathaway lifted a hand in farewell and escaped into the corridor. He leaned against the wall for a moment, taking a deep breath. He turned his head to look at the door through which he had just exited.

Cigarette. No use trying to quit now. Have to stop acting like this. Stupid! Wish he’d tell her. At the same time, dread it. Would he ever do it? Probably not. They’ve known each other fifteen years. A person thinks of you one way for that long, and you can’t suddenly tell them differently. Feardorcha. Zoe. Maybe I knew all along. Maybe Hobson already knows he’s hiding something — the reason she asked about it. Would it disgust her to hear the truth? Hard to say how people will react. The general idea doesn’t bother them, but bring it into their lives… At the very least, she’d feel he lied to her.

The fluorescent lights and the ventilation system hummed softly. Hathaway stayed leaning for a moment more before pulling himself to rights, straightening his jacket, and carrying on.

‘ ’ 

Elmo was dead. Lewis and Hathaway scanned Elmo’s rooms, looking for clues. Hathaway picked up a paper that lay on the table and peered at it. It was a politics essay Elmo had written for Dr Voss’s tutorial. Hathaway sat to have a look at it.

Bloody prawns. Maybe he was right: I shouldn’t have eaten them. Stomach staging rebellion. Hate when my body gets in the way of my mind. Can’t even think.

“Would this do as a suicide note?” Lewis asked from the other side of the room.

Hathaway hauled himself out of the chair, and crossed the room to stand beside Lewis. They stared at lines of poetry handwritten on the same stationery that had been scattered about Andrea de Ritter’s flat.

“ _I heard two lovers late at night / talking of love and death and life_. It’s Elmo and Andrea?”

“Except that he’d hardly be listening to himself,” Lewis said.

“Poetic licence.” He’s so literal. Brain different to mine. Grating on me today. All the comments about being bright. Gifted. Except not now. Stomach louder than brain. What was it? I’m sensitive and prone to deny the obvious? What did he mean by that? Feel hot and sweaty. Lightheaded. Bloody prawns.

The text of Elmo’s essay swam before his eyes. With effort, Hathaway deciphered Voss’s scrawled comments in the margins.

What’s he saying now? Platitude from his grandmother. His hand on my back. Sending me home. Probably best. Dislike leaving when there’s a case. Can’t think. Bed. Keys? I have them. Close the car door. Someone to drive me, that would be nice. In my state, likely to hit an octogenarian. I can see the headline: Detective Sergeant demoted for endangering elderly. Give life to God after that. Atone for my sins. Too many to count.

Hathaway brought the car to a stop in front of Lewis’s flat.

How did I get here? Can’t remember driving this way. He was on my mind. No sense risking careless driving. Sleep here. I want his bed. His smell. I have the key. When did he give it to me? Can’t even remember. Years ago.

The packet of cigarettes in his pocket called to him. He sat down on the kerb, hunched over, and lit one. When it had turned to ashes at his feet, he stumbled into the building and up to the correct floor, jammed the key in the lock, pushed the door open, closed it loudly behind him, and slid the lock home. The flat was neat, everything in its place, as always. The only hint of the morning’s rush was an open wardrobe door and a shirt half in, half out of the laundry basket. Hathaway made disorder from order, shrugging out of his jacket and letting it fall to the floor. His shirt and trousers followed. In only his boxers, he sank into Lewis’s bed. After a moment, he wrestled with the boxers, too, and shoved them out from under the covers.

Finally. Thought I was going to fall over. Can’t be prawns. Never this sick from prawns. Smell of his pillow. We first made love here. This bed I helped him buy. Wonder if he thinks about the old bed. He said goodbye to it. Marriage. Feels better to lie on my back. Takes pressure off the organs? Arms and legs spread out like Da Vinci’s universal man. He was like me. Like to think of him confused. Renaissance genius flustered by his own thoughts. What was it like back then to want a man? Better than the Middle Ages? Not much. Touch the edges of the bed. Take up all of it so no one else can fit in. Except him. Beneath me. His skin against my skin. Feel too cruddy to get off now. Nice just to lie here. Hear the sounds outside. Traffic. Shouts of children. Sometimes think I can hear the sun. Bright star. Steadfast as thou art… But that’s not about the sun. That other poem… What is it? His warmth such frigid colds did cause to melt… Return, return sweet Sol…

‘ ’ 

The day had come to a close, and waning light came in through the windows. Hathaway woke suddenly, alert, listening. Then came the sound of keys being tossed into the basket by the door. Footsteps approached, crossing the living room, coming down the short hall. Hathaway stared at the ceiling for a moment before turning onto his side to face the bedroom door.

His sounds. Did my ears know them from all other sounds? Told me to wake. Will he be annoyed? I was annoyed with him earlier. Does he really think of me that way? Here. Surprised.

“There you are,” Lewis said, nearing the bed and sitting on its edge. “I stopped by your flat. You didn’t answer the doorbell. Nor your phone. I had half a mind to call 999.” Lewis leaned forward and pressed his palm to Hathaway’s forehead. “Feeling any better?”

“A bit.” His kind face. Is this what love feels like? His hand on my forehead. Worrying about me.

“I bought you ginger ale. Val used to swear by it when she had a stomach bug. Are you up to it?”

Hathaway struggled to sit, achieving uprightness incrementally. He reached to turn on the lamp, bringing light to the dim room.

“Are you naked?” Lewis asked, sounding indignant. “You’re ill.”

What does one have to do with the other? He has funny notions of propriety. Old-fashioned, he calls himself. Like when he told me he’d never had sex before leaving for work. Never! I’m corrupting him. Not really.

“I felt hot,” Hathaway complained.

“Dehydrated.” Lewis stood and exited the room without a word.

What’s he doing? The world feels mysterious. Like when I was little and didn’t understand things. Rooms in darkness, corners unknown. Like that. But I turned the lamp on. Still. Something is odd. My senses off kilter, maybe. Fever?

Lewis reappeared, holding a glass of ginger ale. He sat again on the edge of the bed and handed the glass to Hathaway.

“Slowly, now,” he said. “I’m not cleaning up after you if you vomit. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime, thanks.”

Late night. Crying child in his arms. He did that for two of them. What is that like? Pulling the dirty sheets off the bed, pushing sweaty hair from Lyn’s feverish baby face. He never talks about his son. Tom. Poor Tom. Wandering the heaths of Australia. But there are no heaths. Outback sounds less Shakespearean. Afraid to ask what happened between them. Am I allowed to ask now? He might tell me. I want him to.

The ginger ale disappeared sip by sip. Lewis watched Hathaway drink, as if to be certain he didn’t gulp. Hathaway finished it all, and set the glass down on the bedside table with a thump.

I can feel the liquid evaporating from my upper lip. Funny how sometimes you notice that, and sometimes you don’t. Feel fuzzy and hazy. Can’t remember what’s going on with the case. If it was important, he’d tell me. Stomach still aching. Duller now. Want a cigarette. Have to get up and get dressed to go out and smoke it. Advantages of living alone: smoking in bed. He’d never let me.

“Better?”

“Much. Thank you.” Hathaway slid his limbs out from under the covers and set his feet on the floor.

“I wouldn’t eat if I were you.”

“Smoke.”

Lewis gave him an admonishing look. “That can’t be good in your state.” He stood, went to the windows, and closed the blinds.

Hathaway made a noise of agreement, reaching for his boxers. He got up unsteadily.

Lewis came near and kissed him. “Poor sod. I’m going to fix some dinner.”

Cigarettes. Yes. Get the trousers on without falling over. Result! Now the shirt. Buttoned crooked. He’s right: sad state I’m in. Can’t wait to collapse in bed again. Him in the kitchen, poking holes in the plastic covering the frozen dinner. He needs me. Does he? I need him. Can’t help touching him. Pressing up against his back. Arms around him. He fits nicely in them. Cheek against his shoulder. Kiss the hairs the barber shaved on the nape of his neck. Smell. Heart speeding up. One thousand beats per minute. What is it that attracts? No rhyme nor reason to it.

Cool outside. The stars. Steadfast as thou art. Bright star. Dark star. What is the life cycle? Something about supernovas. Stars burning brightest before they die out. Their light taking forever to reach us. Star could be gone and we’d still see it. Light of my cigarette. Who can see it? And for how long? How many nanoseconds for its light to cross the street. It’s gone.

Used to think I had to be outside to talk to God. Church had special windows for communication. Still prefer it, having the sky above me. Even if it’s just gases. And dust. Where does God live if not in gas and dust?

Didn’t die on the stairs. An achievement. He’s sitting at the table with his dinner. Always eats breakfast there, but has dinner on the sofa when he’s with me. More relaxed. I like the looks of him when he rolls up his shirtsleeves. His forearms. Do other people think he’s sexy? How does Hobson think of him, I wonder. No, don’t want to know.

Hathaway sat in one of the chairs at the dining table. Lewis put his newspaper aside, but continued to consume what looked like mashed potato and some species of meat.

“That looks dreadful, sir.”

“I’ve been eating with you every night, and there was nothing else in the freezer.”

Hathaway watched Lewis eat.

Hard to talk to him sometimes. He’s not chatty. Mysterious. He says I am, too. Writing idiotic poems about punctuation. No other way to say it. How do I say it? Not sure what I want to say in the first place. I kissed him. Impulsive, all of it. Nothing to lose. He was going to leave me. But now. What now?

“What?”

“Am I good for you, then?”

“Yeah.” Lewis laid his free hand on Hathaway’s knee and gave it a squeeze. “Whatever you might think.”

Hathaway put his head down on the table and sighed.

Am I really good for him? He’s good for me. Want to curl myself around him. Press my belly against him, make it better. Would he laugh at that? Wish he could read my mind sometimes. Then I wouldn’t have to put things into words. Just think things at him.

“Go back to bed. If you’re not better in the morning, it’s the doctor for you.”

Hathaway got up, wandered into the bathroom to brush his teeth, then made his way to the bedroom. His jacket had been draped over the arm of the chair in the corner, Elmo’s politics paper protruding from the pocket. Hathaway undressed again, removed the paper from his jacket, and collapsed into bed to read.

Messy argument, but interesting ideas. He just needs discipline. Needed. He’s dead now. This paper will never be revised. Irish prince I don’t know. Why don’t I know? Shameful gaps in knowledge. I can hear him moving about, washing dishes. He’ll come in soon. Wish I felt better. His cock. My mouth. Make him come apart.

He set the paper aside and listened to the sounds of teeth being brushed. After a few more minutes, footsteps neared. The door opened almost noiselessly.

“You’re awake.”

“I was listening to you.”

“You’ve gone loopy. Must be the fever.” Lewis sat on the edge of the bed again. “Do you need anything?”

“No.” Hathaway propped himself on his elbows, then collapsed with a groan. “This isn’t prawns.”

“It is prawns. You just don’t want to admit it.” He got up.

Hathaway turned his head to watch Lewis undress. First his shoes came off, and then his socks. He glanced back at Hathaway, as if aware he was being observed. Hathaway smiled sleepily.

“Loopy,” Lewis repeated, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Only for you, sir,” Hathaway said.

Lewis climbed into bed, still in his boxers and t-shirt. Hathaway turned towards him and half-lay on him, leg sprawling over Lewis’s thigh, arm across his chest.

“You’re like an octopus. Or a giant squid.” Lewis ran his hand lightly down Hathaway’s side.

Hathaway pressed closer.

I like being naked next to him clothed. My bare skin against the cotton of his shirt. Sensitive. My cock rubbing against his boxers. Even soft, it likes to touch him, be near him. Rub a little. Kiss.

“A very affectionate octopus,” Lewis murmured, kissing back.

“Do octopuses make noises?”

“What? Like a call, you mean?”

“A mating call.”

“How would I know?”

Thinks I’m strange. Want to make octopus mating calls at him. Wonder what they sound like. Squeaks? Chirps? Would he respond? Must research. How do octopuses say ‘I love you’? Is this love? Explosions of ink? Or is that squid?

“Would you even hear them under the water?”

“Dolphins. They can hear each other,” Hathaway said.

“That’s different. Sonar, isn’t it? Will it keep you awake if I read?” Lewis reached for his book. “It’s early yet.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

Lewis opened the book. “You were a minute ago.”

“You read three pages of that book, and then you’re bored.”

“I’m bored after one, but Lyn wants me to read it before we go.”

“Give it here. I’ll read it and tell you what you need to know.”

Lewis held the book out of reach. “Tomorrow. You rest.” He turned off the light.

They lay in the darkness.

Will he be upset if I ask him? Some things off limits. But that was before. We’re different now. Poor Tom. The good son in disguise. He loved his father. Ask. No. Can’t. Wait for him to bring it up. Might wait forever. Coincidence. Poor Tom on the heath. Hathaway, of the heath. I don’t look like him. Pictures around the flat. Looks like his mother. Lyn looks like him.

“You’ve got something on your mind,” Lewis said. “I can feel the wheels turning.”

He knows me.

“Tom. You never talk about him.”

Silence. Mistake. Will he answer?

“We’re not close.” Lewis said, finally. “I wish I could go back and change things.”

More to the story. He won’t tell me yet. So many regrets I have now. What will it be like in 20 years? Double? What could I change? This. I changed this. Different for him. Will he regret it? Wish he’d taken the other path? Can’t exactly go arm in arm with me at parties, introduce me to Lyn. Odd couple, even to strangers. The heart chooses. Mine wants him. God understands the heart’s speech.

Kiss him. The only thing I can say. His mouth. The taste of him. Touching me like I’m precious. Holding my face in his hands. Kisses growing slower, softer. My cheeks, now. His arms around me. Warm. Sleepy. Ask him again tomorrow… Ask him, and he’ll answer.

‘ ’ 

The street outside Suskin Press wasn’t crowded, but a few people passed by on bicycles or on foot as Lewis and Hathaway exited the building, discussing the case.

All these pieces, and no way to fit them together. Elmo’s tutor poisoned. Leon Suskin denying he killed Andrea de Ritter, even though he had a motive. Suskin’s daughter, Zoe, visiting Voss in hospital. And now I can’t even remember my Irish princes. Should’ve understood everything in Elmo’s paper.

Beside him, Lewis said, “You see, you don’t know everything, do you? Was it relevant to the investigation?”

“I don’t know. Should it be?” If it was important to Elmo, it could be important to the case.

“Yes!”

“Why?” He’s been like this all day. Testy. I’m bringing it out in him. He keeps saying things that irritate me. Asking why Zoe would have visited Dr Voss in hospital. She cared for him. What does it matter how old they are? She likes his mind, and he likes hers. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.

“Because…Just. Sometimes, James, do you never think you could be too clever for your own good? You jumped down my throat when I mentioned Zoe Suskin.”

“That’s pure speculation.” Does he not see? I am Zoe, she is me. Even if it is more than friendship she feels, she wouldn’t have hurt Voss. Opposed, we are. Impasse. Face-off in the street. Hate when we disagree.

“It’s a detective’s job to speculate. And just because Zoe Suskin is nearly as clever as you is no reason to rule her out of anything.” Lewis turned and began to walk off towards the car, conversation done.

Hathaway stood rooted to the pavement for several seconds before he followed. When he reached the car, he got in on the passenger side, silent. Lewis did not speak.

Why is he so angry? Why am I? The way he thinks of me sometimes. Bright child. Gifted. And all the things he assumes go with that. Always telling me I think too much. Our minds. Different. Yet I love his mind. Does he love mine?

Hathaway gazed out the car window as Lewis drove. They continued not to speak. When they arrived at the station, Lewis parked beside Hathaway’s car. Hathaway opened his door.

“James.” Lewis leaned towards the door.

“I think I’ll go home, sir. Still not feeling one hundred percent.” Hathaway avoided Lewis’s eyes and shut the car door.

I’m being a prick. Need time to think. I can feel him looking at me. Worried. Am I making a mess of this already? Maybe I am too sensitive. Never could stick with relationships the few times I’ve tried. Something missing in me? Thought this time would be different — we know each other well, work together well. Usually.

Hathaway unlocked his car and climbed inside. He drove by rote until he arrived at his flat. Inside, he kicked off his shoes, opened a bottle of wine, and flopped onto the sofa.

Innards still achy, but not enough to stop me finishing off half a bottle. Maudlin, that’s what it is. How did I get here? Not just this evening, but my whole life. Choices I made. What could’ve been. MI5. What if I’d signed up? Seminary, if I’d stayed. I might never have met him. If we’d met some other way, would it have been the same? No. What I have with him, it’s because of this. No other way. And what if he’d done differently? Stayed in Tyneside. Never married Val. Or if he’d chosen Hobson instead of me.

Sometimes God in his wrath grants what you ask; at other times in his mercy he refuses what you ask. What has he refused me before? Reason why I didn’t fit in at seminary. Glad of it in hindsight. God’s wisdom? What would he think of me now? Sinner. Swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven. But he and I don’t always agree. I do God’s work in my way. Even Augustine wept for Dido. Passion and compassion. Pay for the times I hurt others. Help them now. Imperfect equation. Haven’t balanced it out yet.

I should go over and apologise. Too drunk. I should tell him how I feel. How do I feel? Maybe it is infatuation. Is that what he thinks? Miss him already. His smell. The way he touches me. Looks at me. Fond. He is fond of me, that much I know. But why so tense these few days? Will I be able to sleep without him tonight? I like him near, even though he snores. More than infatuation, yes. But if he doesn’t know… All these words, and what good are they? All this body, and it can’t say. What if I gave him a key? Why didn’t I before? He gave me his. Is that something people do? I’m bad at this.

Hathaway got up unsteadily, and rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers until he found his spare key. He added it to his keyring.

Key to my flat. Key to my heart. Silly.

He turned off the light, then sat back down on the sofa and downed the rest of the wine in the darkness.

‘ ’ 

A phone call pulled Hathaway from hungover sleep at dawn: Leon Suskin was dead. Hathaway mumbled something about being on his way, then he dressed and drove to the scene. He arrived before Lewis, getting the details from the officers who had cordoned off the area. Lewis appeared a few minutes later.

Himself. Is he upset with me? We’re at work. He won’t show it.

“He was stabbed,” Hathaway said, and relayed the pertinent facts to Lewis as they walked towards Hobson.

He’s not flirting with her. Serious this morning. All business. Wonder if he noticed it bothered me. Suskin. Poor sod, he’d say. Wife and daughter alone now. You can lose someone at any time. He knows that better than anyone. They say you shouldn’t let the sun set on anger. Forgive before going to bed. I should make up with him. Not sure how. What are all these kissings worth, if thou kiss not me?

Together, they examined the ground near the body. Hathaway pointed out the boot print.

“There’s got to be a connection between this and Andrea de Ritter’s murder,” Lewis said. He sighed. “I suppose we’d best get on with it.” He glanced at Hathaway.

Thinking of his wife. Echo of loss. I wonder who came to tell him. Does he think of that moment every time he has to deliver similar news?

“I’ll go, sir. You shouldn’t —”

Lewis waved dismissively. “I’m all right. I wouldn’t make you go alone. Shall I drive?”

Not a question. He hates when I drive.

They got into the car, and Lewis turned the key in the ignition. He checked the rearview mirror.

“Sir?” Feel idiotic now, but I can’t go on with him like this. Have to fix it now.

“Yeah?”

“I was angry yesterday, and I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.”

“Yes. I do.”

Looking over at me. Eyebrows little question marks. Deciphering.

“I like that you’re clever.”

Book clever. Not life clever. Not love clever. Unexpected. The way he’s looking at me. I’m turning pink again, I can feel. How does he have that power over me?

“But you’re more than clever. You make up for my lacks,” Lewis continued, giving Hathaway a little smile. “God knows I’ve plenty of them.”

No. He’s got it wrong. “You make up for mine, sir.”

Lewis’s smile moved to his eyes. “All right. Let’s leave it be.”

Hathaway pulled his seatbelt across his chest and inserted the buckle into the slot. He watched Lewis’s face as he checked the mirror again, then the window, and backed out into the road.

As easy as that. Tension in my stomach going away. Hadn’t realised how much it was bothering me. Relieved.

‘ ’ 

Hathaway sprawled on his sofa, guitar resting on his middle. The clock on the mantel said 10:37. Hathaway stared at it. He strummed listlessly, then let his head fall back so that he was gazing at the ceiling.

10:37. He said he had to do something after work, and he’d be by later. Why do I keep checking? Pathetic. Think every car pulling up at the kerb is him. When he says he’ll do something, he does it. Always. He was in a peculiar mood earlier. Why wouldn’t he tell me what was so important? It’s been hours now. There are lots of things he doesn’t tell me. Things I don’t tell him. Are people supposed to tell each other everything? Exhausting. But so is keeping secrets. Happy medium somewhere. Wouldn’t want to be like the Suskins. Hiding things. Hope Zoe listened to what I said. Don’t want her to grow up angry like the other Zoe. Feardorche. Full of rage and fire. This Zoe more like me now. Me then. And me now. Past life. Present life.

Resolutely, Hathaway set the guitar aside. In red-socked feet, he strode to the bathroom to floss and brush his teeth. He performed the actions efficiently. Top teeth first, then bottom. Outside, then inside. The water from the tap was cold. Hathaway rinsed, spat, set his toothbrush in its mug beside the toothbrush that belonged to Lewis.

Two toothbrushes. They seem to get along. Makes me happy to see them together. Makes me think of him standing here brushing his teeth of a morning. Letting me watch him. What is that noise? Door?

Hathaway let his socked feet slide the last few feet to the door. He opened it to reveal Lewis, who was carrying a paper shopping bag with handles.

“Ah, sorry I’m late.”

Hathaway shut the door behind him. “What’s that?”

“Clothes. For tomorrow. I figured I’d save meself some time in the morning.” He kissed Hathaway hello. “You just brushed your teeth.”

“Mm,” Hathaway said, deepening the kiss.

His mouth. Warm. What did he eat? Piece together clues, or will he tell me where he’s been? Went home to change. Jeans and jumper. He’s here now. Mine. One thousand beats per minute. My heart. Can he feel it?

Lewis pulled away, then neared again to place a light kiss on Hathaway’s mouth. “I had dinner with Laura,” he said.

Hobson. Skip a beat. Stop. What did he say to her? He looks tired. Didn’t notice before. Too excited to see him. Conversation didn’t go well, then?

“She was surprised. And a bit upset.” He sat on the sofa, making room for Hathaway, who came to sit beside him.

“You told her?”

“You wanted me to.”

How did he know? Understands me better than I understand myself sometimes.

“And truth be told, I wanted to tell her, too.” Lewis rubbed his face with both hands. “Not the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but it didn’t seem right letting her go on — not knowing it was you.” He hesitated. “She kept asking if I was sure.”

“Are you sure?” One thousand beats per minute. Ten thousand. Will I burn up and die?

Lewis took Hathaway’s hand in his. “Don’t look like that.” He turned away. “She cares for me is all.”

Hathaway laid his head on the back of the sofa and watched Lewis sideways. They stayed silent.

He’s brave. Must have been difficult to tell her. Am I that important? I should meet him halfway. Do something brave. Sometimes God in his wrath. I wanted him to tell her. But I didn’t want her to know. Contrary that way. God in his mercy. What is he thinking? Mistakes? His hand. My hand. Feel the skin of his wrist. His pulse. Life. His name: bright fame. Bright light. Do not hide your face from me.

“I’m all talked out,” Lewis said, finally, turning towards Hathaway. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in an age.”

That look he gives me. Nothing’s changed. Want. He wants. And me, too. Worry about the rest tomorrow.

“Come to bed, then.” Hathaway trailed his fingers up Lewis’s arm, sliding the sleeve of his jumper up.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.” He leaned in for a kiss.

His voice rough, touch not. I trust him. His hands. Take me apart.

“I’ll be there in a minute.” Lewis stood and headed for the bathroom.

Hathaway watched him go. After a minute, he got up. In his bedroom, he undressed, emptying the contents of his pockets onto the bedside table. He lay naked on his bed, on top of the duvet.

Universal man. My five points. Like a star. In the darkness of this sky. I was lonely. My life before. B.L. Before Lewis. Anno Domini. Always so gentle with me. He knows something happened. Wonder if he’ll ever ask about it. Will I answer? Remember waiting in the airport for him. The nun. A sign. I was the first person he saw when he returned. How did I think of him then? I can’t remember. Why I liked him, I don’t know. Just did.

“You could close the blinds,” Lewis said, entering the room, still clothed. He crossed to the windows and shut the room from view.

“There’s no one directly across.”

“I hope not.” Lewis peered through the crack between blind and window. “They might get ideas.”

Hathaway smiled. “Are you being possessive, sir?”

“It’s called modesty. You could learn some of it.” Lewis took off his shoes, then undressed, placing everything neatly in a pile on the chest of drawers.

Everything in its place. He’s so methodical. Never get tired of watching him. Put the video on loop: shoes, socks, shirt, trousers. Always comes to bed still wearing his t-shirt and boxers, even though he knows I’ll take them off. Doesn’t like to walk around without them. Would put them on to cross the room if he had to get something.

“What are you looking at?”

Bright star. Steadfast. Him, not me. I’m the dark star. Light. Dark. Pulses of light. Old. New. One thousand beats per minute.

“I like watching you.”

Lewis made a dismissive noise, pulling aside the bedcovers and scooting in. “Nothing to see.”

Wrong. He’s wrong. So much to see. The soft look your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep. One man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face. The duvet separating us. He likes to be under the covers.

Hathaway manoeuvred until he had joined Lewis in the cave of the bed, pinning him down and kissing him, open-mouthed, two minty tongues colliding. Hathaway pressed his hips to Lewis’s with light pressure, supporting his weight on his arms.

“You really are like my very own giant octopus.”

“I wish I had eight arms.”

“Tentacles, you mean.”

Hathaway laughed softly, mouthing the slight rise of Lewis’s collarbone. “You wouldn’t want me to be one, really. I researched, and life expectancy plummets after mating.”

“Only you would research something like that. Can’t an octopus just be an octopus without you nosing about in its life?”

“You speculate, I research.”

Together, they worked Lewis’s t-shirt off. Then his boxers. Hathaway pushed the duvet out of the way and lay on his back, taking his erection lightly in hand. Lewis sat up and covered Hathaway’s hand with his, following his motions before taking over fisting his cock.

Love when he rubs his thumb like that. Why does it feel better when he does it than when I do? Am I feeling his emotions through his thumb? Bowing his head down. His tongue. Palm pressing on my balls, now. Quick to notice I like that. He’s never reached behind. Wonder if he’d let me. Inside him. Or him in me? Doubt anyone’s ever touched him there. I want. Our two souls therefore. Joined. Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine in one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine? Interior prayer — desire. Touch his shoulder. Steady myself. Everything falling apart. Wish I could kiss him even when he’s doing this. Be two places at once. One thousand beats per minute. Beat. Beat. Gold to airy thinness. Light/dark/light/dark/light/dark/light/dark/light/dark/light/dark/light/dark/light/dark/light.

My heart.

The room. Still here. His hands. Himself. Divine love causes ecstasy. Makes you belong to those you love. Something like that. His kiss. His hardness against my hip. Curl around it with my fingers. He’s beautiful in this light. In my bed. Mouth on his shoulder. Guide him onto his back. Will he let me? Not sure what I’m doing. All his skin. No one ever sees. Cock lying flat against his belly, ready for me. It wants me. Push his knees apart. Get between them. Closer. Legs on top of my thighs. Lube in drawer. He’s watching me.

“What are you doing?”

“May I make a confession, sir?”

Lewis smiled, fond, exasperated. “What is it?”

“We’ve reached the limits of my sexual experience.”

“And mine!”

His eyes still on the tube in my hand. Nervous? But he trusts me. I know him. He’ll think it’s dirty. Not something you do. What I thought, once, too. With him, I’d do anything.

Hathaway popped the cap of the tube open and squeezed out a drop of lube, smearing it over the tips of his fingers. He lowered his hand and pressed one finger between the cheeks of Lewis’s arse.

“All right?”

Uncertain. Making up his mind. I want to touch him everywhere. Will he offer himself to me? The way I offered myself to him, gave him first refusal. Wanted him then in a different way to now. But still wanted. Will I always want him? Frightened I won’t. Or maybe the want will change form. Then and now. Different and same. Me. And me now.

“Why would you want to —?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “It’s not proper.”

“Lots of things aren’t proper, but they feel good.” Hathaway lay almost completely on top of Lewis and kissed him, sliding his lubed fingers along the crown of Lewis’s cock for emphasis. “You’ll tell me if you don’t like it.”

Lewis breathed in with pleasure. “I — All right. Fine.”

His grumbling tone. Uses it to humour me. Sceptical. Loved that from the first. Love. Is this love? How he gives in to me. Surrendering. How he looks when I spread him with my hands. Embarrassed. Doesn’t think I’d want to see. Do not hide your face from me. More lube. Finger learning new parts of him. Lightly touch. Not even inside him yet. Remember how it felt when I tried it on myself. Not used to being touched there. Every sensation magnified. Probably feels better when someone else does it. Thrill of not knowing what’s going to happen. Push inside. Watch his breathing stop, then start. He trusts me. Take a picture in my mind. How he looks now. My finger sliding against his inmost places. Make him come. Come undone. Think of this when he’s in his suit and tie. Eyes closed. Arching up to me. One hand reaching for his cock. One hand grabbing the sheet. No words, just sound. My bright star. Burning. Coming, coming, coming apart.

After a moment, Hathaway climbed from between Lewis’s legs and lay beside him.

Lewis shifted onto his side, cupped Hathaway’s face, and kissed him lightly, sleepily. “The things you have me do.”

“But you liked it?”

“Mm.”

Hathaway angled his head to whisper in Lewis’s ear. “I want to do it again. And other things.”

“Don’t get carried away.”

He’s falling asleep. Face relaxed. Look one more time. Remember.

Hathaway reached to turn off the bedside lamp.

‘ ’ 

A flood of morning light woke Hathaway. He scrunched his eyes shut, annoyed, and burrowed into the bed.

“Wake up, sleepy.”

His voice. He opened the damn blinds. Why does it get light so early this time of year? Indecent.

The mattress dipped as Lewis sat on the edge of the bed. Hathaway rubbed his face in the pillow, then blinked, groaning.

He’s still here. Always feel lucky when I wake to find it’s true. He smells clean. Hair damp from the shower. Want him now. Before he puts on the rest of his clothes.

“You’re insatiable,” Lewis said, as Hathaway made a grab for him. “I just bathed.”

“You smell nice.” Hathaway buried his face in Lewis’s lap.

“Come on. It’s past seven.” Lewis gave Hathaway a push and got up.

Hathaway continued to lie in bed. He watched Lewis put on his trousers and belt.

My key. I forgot.

“Sir?” Hathaway sat up, flinging off the covers and reaching for his keys.

“I wish you’d stop with that.”

Hathaway worked his spare key off his keyring. “I meant to give this to you yesterday.” He held out the key.

Lewis took it. “What’s this?”

“It’s for my flat.”

“Ah,” Lewis said, studying the key.

What does that mean? Hard to read his expression. Is he pleased? One thousand beats per minute. Don’t hide your face from me.

Lewis reached into the bag containing his clothes, and fetched his keys. Silently, he added Hathaway’s key to the ring.

“Thanks,” he said, holding up the set. He leaned to give a kiss, his eyes falling on Hathaway’s nakedness. “You make it difficult to get out the door in the morning, you know that?”

“It’s intentional. Sir.” Hathaway took a fistful of Lewis’s t-shirt and pulled him down to the bed.

‘ ’ 

Hathaway set two pints down at the table, then sat beside Lewis in the late afternoon sun. “I’ll miss Zoe,” he said.

“You were rather fond of her.” Lewis took a sip of his beer, thoughtful. “A tough business, growing up without her father, even if it wasn’t the happiest of families.”

Thinking of his own family. I wonder what they’re like. Lyn always calling him on the phone. Tom still a mystery. Ask. He’ll answer.

“What happened with Tom, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Lewis didn’t answer immediately.

Did I go too far? Too much, too soon? Maybe. He gave me such a short answer before. Shuts off at the mention of certain things. But I think he wants to tell me. Keep asking. He’ll tell more each time.

“His sports days, for one. I always missed them. I blame the job. Long hours away from me family. I suppose it was harder on Tom. He looked to me, and I wasn’t there for him. We fought about it.”

Hathaway waited, watching.

“If I’d spent more time… But then I mightn’t have been able to support them. In the end, you do what you can. I don’t know if he’s happy now, but he’s finding his way. He’s young yet.”

“Is he like me?”

“Nah. Not at all. Good thing, too.”

They smiled at one another across the table.

Hathaway got a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. He sent the first puff of smoke into the air. “It took me a long time. To find my way, I mean.”

“You could have been MI5! But then I never would have met you.”

Don’t like to think about that. Terrifying. He fills a place in me. My better half. Stay with him. I will. “Do you believe in fate?”

Lewis made an expression of distaste. “You know I don’t.”

“Not fate, then. Something like it. ‘When we love what God wishes us to love, then, doubtless, he will give it us.’”

Mulling it over. Knows what I’m saying. That smile he gets with me sometimes. If I could make it happen every day.

“Who said that?”

“Saint Augustine.”

“A wise man,” Lewis said, and drank his beer.

 

_the end_


End file.
